


Five O'Clock

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens at 5am in the bunker?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five O'Clock

Clocks ticked after five and the bunker was as bright as both midday and twilight. Sam had already showered. He towelled his hair dry and ran his fingers back through it until it was damp, but normal. Now that he had a permanent room, he also had a wardrobe. That meant sweatpants and t-shirts that quickly grew old with sweat and the hours of routine that had helped him overcome his addiction. After he tied up his sneakers, Sam walked out to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. It would warm up in his hand, but he didn’t mind. It was another weight that would help to push him on.

Outside of the bunker, Sam blinked at the orange of a new day. The air was sharp, cleansing. Every breath gave him energy and on the straight paths, he would close his eyes just to feel the breeze. When his feet tired of tarmac, they found the grass and his calves burned when he forced himself through a jog up the side of an artificial hill. On the way back down, his legs barely kept up with his momentum and he smiled like he did when he was a kid, when he lay at the edge of a grassy peak and Dean pushed so he rolled faster and faster, landing in all sorts of different ditches.

When he found his way back, he could already smell Dean’s efforts from the kitchen. He walked through and stood on one leg, the other bent backwards, ankle in hand.

“You’re making breakfast?”

“Bacon and eggs, Sammy.”

“Uh, I’ll pass.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Kevin sat at the table, still poring over the Angel Tablet. Cas was missing.

“Dean, hand me the granola?”

“You get your own goddamn rabbit food.”

Sam smiled.

***

The next five and Kevin woke from the awkward position over his desk. He groaned. Even after months on the run and racing to read the Word of God, he had never gotten used to the late nights and the bad posture. He thought that he should drag himself to bed, but when he looked at the clock, he knew that one touch of the pillow and the day would disappear. He rubbed his eyes. A shadow passed by his door. Sam’s early morning runs made him feel guilty. It reminded him of the ever-present schedule that used to rule his daylight.

Kevin forced himself to dress and he decided to visit the library. He couldn’t bear to waste time. At any rate, it would be a good break to read something different for pleasure. Most of the books he looked over were important texts that the Men of Letters pored over. His fingers traced over alphabetical spines, but his attention was caught by a smaller set of shelves. They were almost hidden behind the more meaningful texts, but that made them more interesting. He crouched down and gave a tight smile. _Dracula, Frankenstein, Vathek, The Vampyre,_ then works by H. P. Lovecraft. They weren’t as neat as the others. It was almost like the Men looked to literature to try and understand the darkness.

He picked up _Vathek_ and was about to turn back to his room when he heard a whistle from the kitchen. A glance at the clock and he was surprised he had spent so look just reading along the shelves. He wandered down to find Dean in place, as always, cooking at the stove.

“Dude, you’re right on time. You’d better like waffles.”

Kevin smiled and opened his book. “Where’s Sam?”

“Out for his run. Bitch. You seen Cas?”

He shook his head. “I never see him until, like, nine or something.”

“Weird.”

***

For Dean, five o’clock was just a number. He snored in his bed until seven, and only woke then at the sound of Kevin muttering loudly to himself as he walked back and forth in front of his door. _Son of a bitch._ He forced himself away from that perfect mattress and wiped a hand down his face. It had been a late night nursing a beer, but he had been good and not drank too much. These days, he tried to get more than just four hours. Nothing could get into the bunker, so the fact he knew that everyone else was safe was another bonus and it helped to ease his mind.

He showered, shaved and dressed before he found himself in the kitchen. Dean found that cooking was a good way to ease him into the day. He frowned as he looked in the fridge and cupboards, though, because nothing really grabbed him. Nothing outside of a good old fashioned steak and mushrooms, but hey, it was still morning and no, he wasn’t a monster. Sam had obviously opted for a longer run and Kevin had taken his pacing back to his own room. The silence was a welcome relief.

Coffee. That would do. Another balanced breakfast. Dean found what he wanted in one of the cupboards and made to fill a kettle. He stopped and frowned. The silence was different. He left the kettle in the sink and walked to the kitchen door. That was it. An echo. He dipped his head and turned his ear closer. _Thud._ His instincts ran and so did he, down a corridor, a spin to the next and jumps down two, three, four stairs at a time.

“No!”

“Cas!”

Dean pounded through the door, tense as he was ready to kill the son of a bitch that dared get close, dared to hurt Cas, dared to get in their defences and dared to fucking try and take them on. Adrenaline snapped his muscles taut and his heart banged, ready to give out and take that fucker down with him. But there was no monster. No break in the outer walls. There was only Cas, only Cas in a t-shirt too big for him, stolen so clearly from Sam, and embarrassing sweatpants that Kevin hadn’t seen in weeks, a little too short at the ankle.

“ _Cas_?”

“Dean. Do you need assistance?”

“Dude, no, what the—what are you doing?”

Cas was either tired or exasperated. “I’m improving my fitness, Dean.”

“Sounded like you were about to get ganked from out there.”

“I am not about to get ganked.”

Dean eyed him suspiciously. The spaces under his arms were soaked, and as Cas turned away to reapproach the bag, another line of sweat triangled to the small of his back.

“So now I’m not just worrying about monsters, but punch-bags? Jesus.”

Cas spun around. He stalked over to Dean and narrowed his eyes, inches lost between them.

“I am more than capable of protecting myself from all manner of enemies.”

“Even pretend ones hanging from the ceiling?”

“I’m still the one that gripped you tight, Dean.”

“Don’t be so gay. That was before, when you still had your smite-me powers. Don’t waste your time, man. Me and Sam got this.”

“You still doubt me?”

Dean held up his hands, lifting an eyebrow and ignoring the fact that Cas had lifted his chin too, but his was wholly in defiance.

“Hey, look, you used to be a big, fluffy angel dude stuck in a lonely meatsuit and I get it, I do, but Cas, you’re not a hunter. Not like this. You’re a regular guy.”

“I am still an _angel of the Lord_.”

“Not now.”

“Even without my Grace, you are no match for me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, Dean. Do not test what you do not understand.”

Dean laughed. “Damnit Cas, I’ve ganked bigger fish than you.”

“I am not a fish, Dean. Perhaps you should _try_.”

“Bring it.”

Dean smirked. Cas was barely three inches from him. It would be an easy match. It was also an excuse to give a couple of well-meaning bruises for breaking dishes and wasting almost whole goddamn plates of food in the days before. With each second that past, Dean became more uncomfortable. And Cas still looked fragile. Sam wouldn’t be happy if Dean punched hard and knocked Cas to the ground. So he did the only thing he could think of. He shoved Cas’ shoulders.

And then Cas moved.

One of Dean’s arms was bent and he hissed as he was spun around and snapped hard down to the ground with enough pressure to make the air click from his knees. Cas calmly knelt behind him. Dean called out in pain, but Cas pulled the arm tight and lifted it behind his head so the shoulder strained. He was cold. He pressed a knee into the back of Dean’s calf. Bent him backwards. Dean jerked himself forward. Cas lost his grip and Dean managed to slide away, slammed his heel against Cas’ stomach. He grinned at the wind spluttered from Cas’ chest. He tried to jump to his feet but Cas launched and grabbed his feet, dragged them back. Dean crashed to the floor, cried out all over again.

“You can’t escape, Dean.”

“The hell I can’t.”

Dean twisted around so he ended on his back, swung a leg back out again. Cas caught it, shoved it to the side. Dean swung again. Cas caught the other. He knelt between Dean’s legs and pressed his middle hard against his groin. Dean growled. Kicks didn’t work, so he squeezed them around Cas’ hips to try and crush him. Cas bent forward and dug his fingers into Dean’s shoulders, picked them up, shoved them back to the floor.

“It would be foolish not to admit your defeat.”

“Best of three.”

Cas stood up and offered his hand out. Dean took it and this time, he wouldn’t go easy. One well-aimed punch hit Cas’ jaw. It burned pink, then red, and Dean smirked again until Cas punched back, mirrored the hit and knocked Dean’s head upwards. Dean stumbled back a step. When Cas followed, Dean snapped his elbow into Cas’ neck. Cas snarled and yanked Dean forward, bent him and thumped a knee into his stomach. Dazed, Dean tried to regain his footing, but Cas was angrier, faster. He shoved him backwards until he hit the wall. He grabbed a fistful of hair and cracked his skull against the brick, hard enough so that Dean dropped to his knees again, panting, broken, lost. Cas still held his hair and threw Dean’s head backward, Adam’s apple bobbing with pants and frustration.

“Admit defeat.”

“Go to hell.”

Cas tensed. “I need you to understand my dominance, Dean.”

Weak from the exertion, Dean tried to stand back up, but Cas held him down. Pressed into the corner, Dean had no space to break free. He was forced to watch, in that position, to Cas stood over him and the free hand that lowered the sweatpant waistband.

“What the fu—?!”

Cas pulled Dean’s head forward until his mouth touched the head of his cock.

“I will watch over you, but you need to understand. You are my charge, Dean. _My charge_.”

Dean swallowed, gasped for some air, and Cas relaxed the grip on his scalp until his palm rested over his crown. And Dean knelt there, uncomfortable, with that smooth tip brushing the tip of his tongue. He didn’t pull away. He held it in place in shock at Cas, in shock at himself, and he blinked as the breath from the back of his throat made that cock twitch. It was too much. He let his tongue trace up over him, to the sensitive underside. At Cas’ sigh, Dean closed his eyes. He didn’t think when he opened his mouth wider, when Cas dropped his hand to cup his cheek, or even when that cock slid further into the heat of his mouth. All he did was groan.

At the first drop of pre-come that salted his tongue, Dean automatically swallowed, dragged Cas further in. His hands were at Cas’ sides and he was able to push further up on his knees, melting into the gentle, forgiving rocks. Soon, Cas hit his gag reflex. There were more shallow thrusts until Dean was able to relax his throat and feel the shaft press deeper inside him. And oh, it was glorious. Cas held his position and then it was Dean that dictated the pace. He rolled his head back and forth until the friction on his tongue electrified down to his groin.

Each of Cas’ muscles jolted, pulsed, throbbed. His exercises may have broken in his body, but there was no practice for his desire. It took all of his energy to stay on his feet. Dean pulled back enough to concentrate his sucks on the tip, and forced a strangled groan from Cas’ mouth. He drew more of his shaft back in, out, faster, harder and _oh Cas fuck Cas_ before his mouth with filled with wet lust and Dean balked, he stopped, held it there in shock all over again before he swallowed around his cock, coaxed more from him and that iron need moaned into softness and more swallows, over and over until Cas slumped forward, palms on the wall, head dropped lower than his shoulders and Dean fell too, forehead against his hip, still hard, still drowned in want. Dean swallowed again and he could still taste him. That limp cock was at his side and he couldn’t, he really couldn’t, so he closed his eyes and made himself tuck Cas back into those sweats and ignored how there could possibly be a stain left after he had taken in so much.

“Dean, I—”

“I swear to God, Cas, if you—”

“Uh, guys?”

Dean looked up and found Sam frowning in the doorway. He looked between both men, Dean still on his knees, Cas up against the wall like he had been frisked, and how their eyes were on him and avoiding him all at once.

“You weren’t in the kitchen, and I heard noises—?”

“Yeah, and?”

“And I was wondering what the hell it is I’m seeing.”

Cas glanced at Dean. “I was simply demonstrating—”

“He knocked me on the floor and I punched him in the dick.”

Dean scowled and just dared Cas to say any other goddamn word. Cas managed to pull himself upright, unsure.

“You… punched his dick? _Man_.”

It took a moment for Dean to stand and tuck his erection under his waistband uncomfortably. He snorted and left the room, muttering about how it was just a fight and no one said a fucking word if it meant beating the fucking monster of the week. Instead of the kitchen, he went straight to his bedroom, reeled at the fact he lost and brushed his teeth after spending far too much time in the shower.

***

It was five o’clock in the morning, a week before the fight. Cas sat up in bed. He followed the routine that Dean and Sam had taught him. He washed, but counted the seconds so he wouldn’t take too much hot water. He frowned when he scraped the razor across his chin so that he didn’t miss a stray. When he dressed, he carefully opened the drawer and lovingly unfolded the clothes that he had stolen from the fresh laundry pile.

Half-past five and Cas waited just inside his door, listening to Sam prepare for his morning run. After the footsteps outside turned to silence, that was when he took the quieter corridors to the bunker’s gym. He let the gym door almost close behind him, but made sure there was enough of a gap so that he could hear anyone approach.

In the months that had set up this particular habit, Cas had learned that his body needed time to stretch out. He took deep breaths and arched his back. He flexed out his limbs, one at a time, and rolled his head around his neck. After that, he would start with laps around the gym. Then he started his press-ups, which followed into sit-ups. He finished with kicks and blows to a now-worn punching bag. His body ached when he reached the end of his routine, each muscle wilted, but that was good, that was what he wanted. That was when the ache between his legs disappeared.

He left the gym before anyone else even suspected that he was awake. Cas showered for a second time and returned the clothes to the unwashed laundry. It was always in those few moments that he heard the echo. It was either the hint of voice or a full laugh, and Cas smiled towards it as the warm, familiar burn consumed his chest. Then, he looked down, like every day since he had started his five o’clock, as he knew that he had failed. Dean. He just couldn’t think of anything but Dean.

It was useless. He would have to make the next morning’s workout harder.


End file.
